


We Deserve Tenderness

by hey_malarkey



Series: Alternate's Universe (3 Stans, 1 Ford) [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: 3 stans 1 ford, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Portal Stan, Self-cest, Sibling Incest, Stan's Drifter Days, Stancest - Freeform, amputee character, homeless stan referenced, one armed stan, stan who never got the portal working
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:39:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27850142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hey_malarkey/pseuds/hey_malarkey
Summary: “Everything we went through matters, but at the same time… we deserve better. We deserve a moment to ourselves. A moment to love who the fuck we were and who we became."They had a rocky start, and a rough set of history between the way their two lives diverged, but for just a moment, both Stans want to be able to set that aside.
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines, Ford Pines/Stan Pines, Stan Pines/Stan Pines
Series: Alternate's Universe (3 Stans, 1 Ford) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2038734
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	We Deserve Tenderness

**Author's Note:**

> Rated E because of self-cest and the implied incest. This fic doesn't get graphic, it's pretty fluffy tbh.
> 
> A special thanks to the bud who helped me create and fill out this universe, and who continues to inspire me to write and actually maybe post what we've got in this au, bluestuffeh!!

“Hey, rambler, pop a squat. Kick your feet up, stay awhile.” Stan eyed the old man before complying, sitting on the fold-out couch beside him. Kicking his feet up on the table. Old Stan let the arm he’d been resting on the back of the couch drop over his shoulders, squeezing lightly.

“Isn’t this nice?” he says around a mocking grin. Stan rests his head on the back of the couch, neck bunched against the old man’s thick forearm.

“You don’t have to do that with me,” he says. He rolls his head to the left to look at the other. “You don’t have to do your act on me. I get it.”

Stan made eye contact and kept it until the old man sighed, letting his shoulders drop slightly.

“Force of habit.”

They sit in silence for a moment, Old Stan absent-mindedly rubbing a circle on his short arm.

Stan closed his eyes and let the old man take the moment. Besides, it felt kind of nice for someone else to rub his arm. Sometimes the nub was screaming at him and other times it was dulled, numb, but he never forgot it was there, missing. The wound kept feeling fresh in his mind, despite happening well over a few years ago.

“Coldest January on record, at that point, in South Dakota. I dunno if you went that route, but there’s a surprising amount of crime in South Dakota. If you’re lucky enough to get a bid on it. Word-of-mouth and a bad reputation got me the in. Worked a few jobs, got in some fights, took some bad hits. It was so cold that winter, I wasn’t sure if I was gonna freeze or get gutted first. Not worse than columbia, but it was pretty bad, rambler. Nearly got my leg blown off. As it is I’ve had a limp since 1978, and never been to South Dakota since.”

Old Stan isn’t really looking at him as he says all this, still rubbing Stan’s arm rhythmically. Stan cocks his head, thinking. 

“Rockport, right? A guy I met on one of the jobs set the charges wrong, not me. He blew his dam foot off. I caught some shrapnel. It’s how I got a nice-sized scar over my shin.”

Old Stan nods, hums in agreement. The hand wondered to the back of his shoulder, tracing over a scar they shared, before sliding back to the arm and resuming his rubbing. An expectant prompt hung in the air--he wasn’t going to ask, but it was obvious he was curious.

Well. He was curious about the other, too.

“You call me rambler, or drifter. You’re right. I never stopped drifting from place to place.” He pauses and shrugs out of his jacket, throwing it over the armrest of the couch.

“But do you know how old I am? I’ll give ya a hint--older than this naïve Ford who caught us up.” He pulls his shirt up by the hem, one-handed, and places it by his jacket. He turns his back to show his shoulder to Stan. The same symbol branding both visible.

“Our portal fight, its activation, being branded like cattle--but unlike you, my Ford didn’t go through. I did. I’ve been drifting the multiverse for over 7 years, now. A regular portal Stan.”

Stanley runs his fingers through his hair, twisting back to rest against the back of the couch again. He sighs, dropping his hand to squeeze against his own thigh as he continues, irritation and frustration and exhaustion dripping from him.

“If Ford keeps messing with portal tech, he’s gonna get swallowed up and eaten alive in there. I’m not making it out with everything in tact,” he says, waving his short arm in a circle before dropping again. “How would he?”

Old Stan traced over the ugly lines of Stan’s arm, where the skin has folded and sewn. He reached around and back to brush the scarred shoulder and looked him in the eye. Stan saw something fragile brimming in the elder’s face. Something sacred, or secret. Something typically masked in bitterness, Stanley suspected.

“My brother made it back,” he admits in a rough voice. Fragile and tough and broken. “I saw him again. I worked day and night for 35 years but it wasn’t enough. When he came back and found me we fought. Harder than any time before, but I never could resist getting sucked into his gravity--”Stan’s eyes went far away for a moment before he swallowed hard and continued. “But he was changed. He was stronger, angrier. And then he kicked me out. Out of the home I’d known for 35 years, out of his life, and out of me.” Stan clenched his fists, eyes narrowed and staring daggers into Stanley’s shoulder, before darting up to make eye contact.

“He aged better than I did. Strong, lean, handsome,” he said wistfully. “But so, so angry. He never forgave or forgot. He kicked me out and a few days later I was  _ here _ .”

A long moment they stared at each other, horror and regret and sorrow and distance each taking their turn across their faces. Stan put his hand to Old Stan’s waist, kneading softly. 

“I see you and think--god, I make it. I fucking can make it. You’re incredible proof, we can survive anything. Even when we don’t want to.”

Old Stan nods. “Even when we don’t want to,” he repeats. He brings his other hand up to cradle Stanley’s face, a softer hold than anything he’s witnessed the old man give before.

_ We deserve something tender _ , he thinks to himself. He can see it reflected in his counterpart’s countenance. In the soft caress of a thumb over his cheekbone. They lean in, finally on the same page, into a kiss.

“Everything we went through matters, but at the same time… we deserve better. We deserve a moment to ourselves. A moment to love who the fuck we were and who we became.” Stanley says, tilting his forehead up to rest against Stan’s.

Stan shakes his head, but he’s still slowly rubbing his thumb over cheekbone, long sideburns, and jaw, then back up again. It’s soothing, and so much softer than he’s seen Old Stan be since they arrived.

“I dunno about whether we deserve much better, rambler, but… I don’t wanna be angry right now.”

Stanley presses his lips to Stan’s once more, gently capturing the other in a kiss that doesn't build so much as rests. They press closer, but there is no pressure. Stan doesn't pull his hair, and Stanley doesn't pinch or prod the other, like they would have with the others. The thumb stroking over his jaw continues, and Stanley pulls back slightly, eyes flicking over Stan's slight flush before leaning into the other's neck, planting soft kisses all down his jaw to his collarbone. 

Stan tilts his head back as Stanley does so, and Stanley feels Stan's other hand go to his chest, thumbing across the planes of him in a similar way. Gentle, slow, exploratory. Cataloguing their differences. Stan leans down to kiss an unfamiliar scar, and Stanley lets a soft gasp escape. 

Their hands are calloused and clumsy and some fingers have swollen joints from breaks that never healed quite right, and one hand is missing entirely, but it is quiet as they share small whimpers of need and kisses sweeter than either knew they could still give. They press together, and take the next few moments as they come, softly. Taking their time to enjoy the gift of tenderness they decided to give themselves for once.

In the morning they won't speak of it. They'll go back to the semi-distasteful bickering and arguing and disagreements they hold in the presence of the others. But every now and then, when it's just them, they allow their masks to slip, to crack, to fall to the side, and they embrace one another in solidarity of lives turned to shit. With the desire for just a moment's reprieve from everything howling at their backs. With kisses that promise they won't turn to bite marks, and touches that won't leave bruises, for once. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm hoping to post more shots in the Alternate's Universe, because I've got a lot written, it's just spread out and time-hopping. But I love the potential of all the different types of interactions between these four and where they're at in their lives when they get sucked into this mess.


End file.
